


Five Times Sherlock Was a Tease + One Time He Wasn't

by sator_square



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sator_square/pseuds/sator_square
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock loves denying people what they want, especially when he's the one who caused them to want it in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Sherlock Was a Tease + One Time He Wasn't

**1\. Mycroft**  
  
Sherlock sat in Mycroft's lap, his bare legs resting on either side of Mycroft's thighs. His trousers were on the floor somewhere next to the bed, long since forgotten.  
  
Sherlock had one hand on Mycroft's neck, controlling the kiss, while the other rested on Mycroft's stomach, tormenting him with its proximity to his cock. Mycroft's whole upper body was flushed from arousal, chest thrumming in and out with every harried breath.  
  
Sherlock nipped Mycroft's lip with his teeth, running his tongue over it in apology afterwards.  
  
Mycroft groaned softly. He squeezed Sherlock's arse rhythmically in response, sending pulses of heat radiating through his entire body. Sherlock squirmed, feeling like he would die if his cock wasn't touched soon. It was almost enough to make him want to go through with it this time.  
  
Almost.  
  
He pulled back, enjoying the flash of disappointment that crossed Mycroft's face. “I don't think I'm quite ready, yet.” His hand danced over Mycroft's cock, never quite touching it with any firmness.  
  
Mycroft's laugh was nearly a sob. “Of course... of course you aren't ready,” he panted. “You're never going to be ready, are you, Sherlock?”  
  
“I'll be ready eventually,” Sherlock protested. Even he had to admit he was pushing it, however. They repeated the same scenario almost daily every time Sherlock was home from uni.  
  
Sherlock had been telling the truth the first time it had happened, when he'd ambushed Mycroft in his bed in the middle of the night, but hadn't quite been able to go through with what he'd intended to offer. He'd mostly been telling the truth the second time, when he'd caught Mycroft off-guard in the shower, touching him everywhere but where he truly needed it.  
  
However, by the third time, he'd simply come to appreciate seeing Mycroft red-faced and desperate, so close to what he wanted but unable to reach out and take it. Sherlock didn't see how actual sex could possibly compare.  
  
“No. No, I know what you're doing, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, voice strained. “This is one of your games. I'd suspected for a while, but...” He shuddered. “I won't fall for it again.”  
  
Sherlock pressed his cheek against Mycroft's, breathing in his ear. “Mycroft--”  
  
Mycroft trembled, thighs tense with the effort of remaining still. “Enough,” he gasped. “You could at least have the decency to leave me alone with my predicament.”  
  
Sherlock slid off of his lap, not even bothering to pick up his trousers as he left. The moment he was out of the room, he sat down next to the door and had a furious wank to the muffled sounds coming from inside.  
  
 **2\. Lestrade**  
  
“You haven't had sex in more than six months,” Sherlock told Lestade.  
  
“And how would you know that?” Lestrade asked, pulling his legs down off of his desk. He gave a paranoid glance at the door to his office, as though expecting someone to be listening in.  
  
“I've seen the tension building your body,” Sherlock replied silkily. “The long glances at every reasonably attractive person who passes near you, the lingering touches on your colleagues' hands and shoulders...”  
  
Lestrade tugged on his collar. “Hey, I haven't--”  
  
“Oh, don't worry,” Sherlock interrupted dismissively. “It's obviously completely unconscious.”  
  
“What does it even matter?” Lestrade asked.  
  
“It matters because you're too concerned with your morals to see a prostitute, and masturbation is no replacement for the real thing.” Sherlock knelt down in front of him, reaching for his trousers.  
  
Lestrade caught his hand. “I'm still a married man, you realize.”  
  
“Separated,” Sherlock replied. He pulled his hand free and rested it on Lestrade's leg, running his thumb slowly up the inside of his thigh.  
  
Lestrade eyed Sherlock's hand like it was water in a desert. He laughed nervously. “I didn't know you were even interested in... this. You don't think it's _boring_?”  
  
“It's never boring when _I_ do it,” Sherlock replied with a smirk. He slid a hand over the prominent bulge in Lestrade's trousers.  
  
“Ah.”  
  
Sherlock continued to rub him through his trousers, hand moving oh-so-slowly.  
  
“Oh, God.” Lestrade's hands gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles pale.  
  
Sherlock unzipped Lestrade's trousers, pulling out his cock and giving it a gentle squeeze.  
  
Lestrade let out a soft groan, biting his lip to muffle the sound. His eyes were completely focused on the movement of Sherlock's hand, his pupils nearly double their normal size.  
  
Sherlock parted his lips, then dropped his head down. He stopped just short of taking Lestrade's cock in his mouth, his breath caressing the tip. “Do you really think this is right?” he asked suddenly.  
  
“Wha-- huh?” Lestrade stared at him, uncomprehending.  
  
“I'm not good with this sort of thing,” Sherlock replied. “I know _I_ think it's fine for you to do this, but you always seem so concerned with doing the right thing. _Is_ this the right thing?” He glanced at Lestrade's wedding ring.  
  
Lestrade swallowed, then closed his eyes, clearly fighting a battle of wills with himself. “ _Sherlock..._ ” he groaned, clawing at his forehead.  
  
“Did I say something wrong?”  
  
“No,” Lestrade replied, sounding absolutely tortured. “No, you're right. I should be trying to work things out. I'll call my wife later.”  
  
 **3\. Anderson**  
  
“The witness was in the chair--” Anderson began.  
  
“Idiot. The witness was standing next to the wall. That's how he was able to hear the killer leaving. He just doesn't want to admit to what he was doing when he heard the shot.”  
  
“And what was he doing?”  
  
“It's obvious. Look at the smudges on the wall.”  
  
Anderson glanced at the wall. “He was touching the wall.”  
  
“No, you idiot. He wasn't just--” Sherlock pulled Anderson over to the wall. “See that smudge? That's where the witness's _companion_ pushed him against the wall.” Sherlock gave Anderson a light shove.  
  
“Hey!” Anderson's arms flew out to steady himself.  
  
“Yes, that's it,” Sherlock said. “His hands landed right there, you can see the marks.”  
  
“What about all the other marks on the wall?” Anderson asked.  
  
“Those were caused by the blow job.”  
  
“The blow job?” Anderson repeated. “Are you sure you even know what a blow job _is_?”  
  
“Of course I know what a blow job is,” Sherlock replied, crouching down in front of him. “You're the one who seems to need your memory refreshed.” He pulled the man's zip down with his teeth.  
  
Anderson slammed his hand against the wall in surprise, hitting one of the smudges.  
  
Sherlock yanked Anderson's trousers down. He roughly fondled the man's half-hard cock, bringing it to full attention, then circled the head with his tongue.  
  
“A-ah!” Anderson flailed helplessly, arms scraping the wall while his hands scrambled for purchase. “Y-you... oh--!” His elbow knocked against the wall, hitting a small, pre-existing indentation and fitting perfectly.  
  
Sherlock pulled back, letting the still-hard cock slide right out of his mouth. “And that's when they were interrupted by the sounds from next door,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet. “It's perfectly obvious, if you could be bothered to _observe_.”  
  
“What-- you--” Anderson sputtered. “You can't just _stop_ , n-not after--”  
  
“Lestrade's coming up the stairs,” Sherlock replied. “I suggest you pull up your trousers.” He turned around and walked out the door, knowing he'd be unable to hide his grin for much longer.  
  
 **4\. Jim**  
  
“You really do need to get out more,” Jim said, sipping his tea. “I've heard you're still a _virgin_.”  
  
“Yes, you keep bringing that up. Were you hoping to deflower me?”  
  
“Why not?” Jim replied, giving him a flirtatious glance. “Could be _fun_.”  
  
Sherlock glared at him, more than a little annoyed. Did the man really think that would be enough to unsettle him? “You're right. Why not?” He set his tea down and walked over to Jim.  
  
Jim's eyes widened, his mouth open in a small 'o' of surprise. He set his own tea down on the table, then gestured at his lap. “Now, now. Don't be a _tease_.”  
  
Sherlock straddled him, resting his hands on his shoulders. He pressed their foreheads together, lips close but not touching. “Is this what this whole thing has been about?”  
  
“Oh, don't flatter yourself, Sherlock. This is an interesting diversion, nothing more.” He bit Sherlock's bottom lip, then leaned back in the chair. “Well, get to it, then.”  
  
“I have to do everything, do I?”  
  
“What can I say? I don't like getting my hands dirty.”  
  
Sherlock rocked his hips back and forth, grinding his arse against Jim's lap. He bit down on Jim's neck, _hard_ , then sucked on the wound.  
  
Jim made a lewd noise. “Oh, Daddy likes that. Daddy likes that a lot.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was fortunate that Jim couldn't see his face at the moment.  
  
By the time Sherlock had Jim's cock out and in his hands, Jim was panting, impatient. “Get _to_ it, already,” he moaned, watching Sherlock with half-lidded eyes.  
  
Sherlock stood. “You know what? I think I've changed my mind.”  
  
Jim's eyes shot open. “What?”  
  
“Giving you what you want would hardly be any _fun_ , would it?” Sherlock returned to his chair, leisurely sipping his tea.  
  
Jim laughed. “Oh... oh, I am going to enjoy killing you.”  
  
 **5\. John**  
  
“Honestly, John. It's not nearly as difficult as you're making it out to be.”  
  
“I'm sorry, but... what, exactly, would you know about it?” John replied. “It's not like you've ever had to seduce anyone.”  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
  
John did a double-take. “You mean-- no. No way.” John shook his head. “I don't believe you.”  
  
“There are simple techniques that will work on anyone,” Sherlock replied.  
  
John crossed his arms. “Simple techniques?”  
  
Sherlock walked over to John, putting a hand under his chin and tilting his head slightly upward.  
  
John stared at him. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Demonstrating,” Sherlock replied. “Simple techniques, John. First, make eye contact. Maintain it for as long as possible.”  
  
“This is ridic--” John tried to turn his head away, but Sherlock caught it, turning his face back toward him.  
  
“John.”  
  
“Fine.” John met his eyes. “Eye contact. Got it. What else?”  
  
“Touch,” Sherlock replied, taking one of John's hands in his and rubbing small circles on the back with his thumb. “Touch the hands as much as possible, the face if you can get away with it.” He ran his other hand over John's cheek, still looking him right in the eyes. He moved his face almost imperceptibly closer.  
  
John swallowed. “Then what?”  
  
Sherlock smiled, then continued. Within a few minutes, he had John leaned up against the wall, trousers open, hard cock peeking out from under his shirt. Their eyes were still locked. Sherlock licked his lips suggestively...  
  
…and then he stood, rubbing his hands together. “And that's it.”  
  
“S-sorry, that's it?” John exclaimed. “That's _it_?”  
  
“Well, yes, John,” Sherlock replied. “You don't actually want me giving you a blow job. You aren't _gay_.”  
  
John blinked, then shook his head, as though suddenly coming to his senses. “R-right.” John paused. “Right. I'm not gay. Not even... not even a _little_ gay, so... you're right.” He cleared his throat. “I'll, um... I'll be my room.”  
  
“Glad we've settled that, then.”  
  
 **+1. Mycroft**  
  
“Why are you here, Sherlock?”  
  
“I'm ready.”  
  
“Ready for what?”  
  
“I'm _ready_ , Mycroft.” Sherlock locked the door, then plopped himself down on Mycroft's desk.  
  
Mycroft set the file he'd been reading to the side. “Why should I believe you?”  
  
Sherlock took Mycroft's hand, rubbing it firmly against the bulge in his trousers.  
  
Mycroft sucked in a breath. He undid the zip slowly, watching Sherlock's face carefully the whole time. Seeing no discomfort or reluctance, he pulled out Sherlock's cock, giving it a light squeeze. “Might I ask why you're coming to _me_ , after all these years?”  
  
Sherlock squirmed. “Just do it, Mycroft.”  
  
Mycroft tsked at him. “You come in here, making such demands...” He smirked. “If I were a crueler brother, I would do the same thing to you that you've done to me.” He softly caressed the tip of Sherlock's cock, barely touching him.  
  
“But you won't do that,” Sherlock retorted, “because it would only leave you just as frustrated as it would leave me, wouldn't it, Mycroft?” He kicked off his shoes, rubbing a foot against Mycroft's cock through his trousers.  
  
Mycroft bit back a groan.  
  
Sherlock gave him a smug smile.  
  
Mycroft gave Sherlock a disapproving glance. He leaned his head down and gave Sherlock's cock a single, drawn out lick.  
  
Sherlock gasped, gripping the edge of the desk. “Mycroft--!"  
  
Mycroft only smiled back at him. He teased Sherlock mercilessly for several more minutes, giving in and sucking him off only when Sherlock threatened to make enough noise to alert everyone to what they were doing.  
  
Sherlock returned the favor somewhat clumsily, but it was more than enough.  
  
“Was it as frightening as you imagined it would be?” Mycroft asked afterward.  
  
“I was never _frightened_ , Mycroft,” Sherlock replied irritably. “You know that.”  
  
“What do you intend to do now that you've satisfied your curiosity?”  
  
Sherlock looked shifty. “There's no reason we can't do this again. Perhaps.”  
  
“Perhaps?” Mycroft repeated, immediately reading between the lines. “If you're thinking of returning to your old habit of tormenting me, think again.”  
  
“It's not about tormenting you,” Sherlock protested. At Mycroft's _look_ , he continued: “Okay, _yes_ , it is about tormenting you. But it feels so _good_. You have no idea...”  
  
“I have some idea.” Mycroft sighed, then paused for a moment. “...20%. You may seduce and refuse me 20% of the time without any complaint from me.”  
  
Sherlock scowled. “I can refuse you whenever I like.”  
  
“Yes. You can,” Mycroft replied. “The point is that _I_ can refuse you as well. I don't have to allow you to tease me endlessly.”  
  
Sherlock looked thoughtful. “50%”  
  
“Ridiculous.”  
  
“30%”  
  
“25%,” Mycroft replied. He leaned over. “Imagine how uncertain I'll always be, never knowing whether you'll give me what I need. How much more it will _ache_ when you refuse me.”  
  
Sherlock exhaled sharply. “...deal.”  
  
“I'll be keeping track,” Mycroft added sternly.  
  
“I'm sure you will.” Sherlock strode from the room, already working out the optimal schedule for tormenting Mycroft.  
  
His brother had no _idea_ what he was in for.


End file.
